Hedarya

"Come with me, my darling, let us dance among the stars..."

It drifted over her face in fine powder, clinging to pale hair, lashes

and skin before melting into the warmth found there. Bleak, shining, the

sun made dazzling diamonds of the snowfield around her, a sparkle born

here like an upturned sky in which the earth is reduced to foggy

atmosphere above the blinding radiance of a white-starred veil drawn

over a Lady's chilled countenance. Frigid air slid into her lungs, a

deep breath was taken; stillness breaks as from poppy-induced trancing

she finds herself alone.

Rather than seek respite in the fur mantle she wears, her cold fingers

brush errant patterns in the snow, a soft flurry of words released in

plumes of crystallised moisture to stain the brittle air biting her sore

lips like glacial suitors intent on stealing kisses. "You are cold, and

You are beautiful", she sings, though her voice is lost in a gust of

wind. "Where the winter moon shines in hardship, the stars beckon". The

timbre of her voice deepens as she reaches back with a hand and tugs the

pelt from her shoulders, shrugging it off and leaving her bare as a babe

in the boreal recesses of abandonment. Frosted tears like ornaments from

flushed cheeks slide, caught and held, precious gems upon her skin --

she is afraid.

Frigid, the climate penetrates, exacerbates, and lifting a mirror in

shaking hands she gazes upon her other self within the fogged glass. Her

twin smiles and becomes the face of the moon -- pale and unflawed,

though this imagery is broken as a crimson trickle slides across its

ice-sheet surface. "A prophesy broken" she murmurs brokenly, the bloody

portent noted with drawn brows while she presses a wounded hand to the

mirror-self and washes her away in a smear of scarlet.

Something profound slithers beneath her ivory skin, something pulses to

a beat not unlike that of a heart. This rhythm refuses to synchronize

with hers, instead coaxing her heart's thrum to play counterpart in an

enthusiastic recital. Unable to do else, she takes up the drum and sets

a beat with her palm, the soothing balm of a mystic's hymn uniting these

two pulses of life in one purpose -- A symphony of spirituality.

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